


first things first

by BrosleCub12



Series: Alternative Universe: Meet-Cutes [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Epilepsy, M/M, Misunderstandings, Service Dogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-02 05:59:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16299485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrosleCub12/pseuds/BrosleCub12
Summary: The dog – a beautiful black Labrador with a blue vest, the words ‘Service Dog’ imprinted in white letters – eyes him keenly, tail wagging slowly and Bitty blinks; glances out at the deserted sidewalk.‘Where’s your owner, honey?’





	first things first

**Author's Note:**

> A thousand bucketfalls of thanks go to the lovely twisted-miracle, who offered to be my beta-reader last month. Although they were originally asked to beta this fic, they also took on the task of quickly beta-ing my Doctor Who/Check Please crossover fic, meaning I was able to publish it just in time before it was jossed by DW canon. I am very grateful for the time and diligence they've given and for helping me turn this fic into something good. Working with them the past few weeks has been an absolute pleasure and has allowed me to accomplish a lot.
> 
> Please note: although I have done research, I am not an expert when it comes to service dogs. This is just a work of fiction and I aim to entertain, not to offend. 
> 
> I don't own Check Please - all thanks goes to Ngozi for creating it and letting us play in the sandpit.

* * *

‘No Mama – yes, Mama. Okay, Mama, I will!’

Clutching his folder full of resumes in one hand, Bitty strolls down the sidewalk, bag over his shoulder and phone to his ear, swerving to avoid the mid-afternoon crowd who are out for lunch, not wanting to get off on the wrong foot with anybody by crashing into anyone as he listens to his mother. It wouldn’t do to anger the good folk of Providence so early on, after all, not when he’s only been here for two days.  

Coming across a café with tables outside on the sidewalk, he stops to take a breath and leans against one of the chairs, dumping his stuff on a free table, glad to be rid of some of the weight. Job-hunting, especially on foot, is tough, even for the retired figure-skater who’s been power-marching along to motivational songs on his phone by Jessie J and Sarah Bareilles all morning. Even when one has a considerably protective mother who likes to lecture him on the finer points of looking smart and how to polish his shoes (she’d snuck a container of polish into his suitcase with instructions, bless her) so he’ll make a good first impression on potential employers.

‘Of course, Mama.’ He nods along to her predictable chatter, making humming sounds of assent as she advises him what to wear for job-interviews, soaking up the well-weathered tones of her voice in an unfamiliar city that he’s learning in a hurry. His Mama tends to go on (and on and _on;_ it’s a family trait) but besides Samwell, this is the furthest he’s been away from home before and, well. His mother’s familiarity is a little piece of Southern goodness that he wants to carry around with him, even if it was his decision to come here in the first place.

‘I know, Mama.’ He pulls out a chair to sit down because he might as well now that he’s stopped. ‘No, I – I miss you too.’

It’s not a lie, but even as he says it, he wonders, deep down, if he’ll ever truly be able to call Georgia home in the same way anymore; at least, the spaces outside the safety of his parents’ house, the friends and neighbours and relatives, his mother’s church-crowd, who always make a point of asking, over and over, if he’s dating, why hasn’t he brought a nice girl home, with the treats he makes he could be the perfect husband. And, well. He can’t stay in Madison forever, not when there are parts of himself he’s struggling, more and more to keep secret. The love in his hometown is vast, but it’s not always unconditional.

He doesn’t say any of this to his mother, of course; simply tells her he loves her and then says goodbye, feels the ache of silence as they end the call. Inhaling deeply, he takes in the fresh air of the city, reminds himself it’s part and parcel to feel lonely in new, unfamiliar environments – even in Providence, said by many to to be the foodie’s city of Kings. For a young baker looking for a change, it’s ample opportunity to do something new.

With these thoughts in mind, and having shrunk his pile of resumes considerably, he looks up at the café – a hole in the wall called _Little Faber_ – and decides a break is in order; he’s been traipsing up and down the streets of Providence all morning, dashing in and out of various bakeries, anywhere that looks like they might be hiring, answering questions and dealing with one very rude manager who used a very snotty tone when she told him her bakery wasn’t handing out summer jobs to students. Bitty had refrained from both mentioning that he had recently graduated and was actually seeking full-time employment and from offering her a sample of the pecan pie that he’s been carrying around as a showcase, turning on his heel to stride out with his head high and lip quivering.

‘Be tough,’ he had reminded himself outside once he was out of sight, rubbing his face frantically and fairly sure that the rude manager would probably be laughing about him to her co-workers. Well, good. Always nice to know who your enemies are.

Besides, most of the places he visited had rather nice staff, although the pie may have had a lot to do with that. A glance into the box confirms that Bitty only has one piece remaining and he’ll have to use it wisely. For now though, he really needs a coffee and a moment to breathe.

Digging into his bag for his wallet, he puts his earbuds back in and cranks up the volume to Beyonce, hoping his queen’s familiar tones will go some way to calming the frantic mood his job-hunting has built up in him, aware he’s a little bit sweaty; goodness, he’d better spruce himself up a little if he wants to make a good impression this afternoon. He’s nodding along to ‘Halo,’ finding comfort in the well-loved lyrics from his favourite Queen and responding to a text from Lardo to let her know how he’s getting on when he suddenly becomes acutely aware of a second presence at his left elbow.

An extremely hairy second presence with warm brown eyes and a cold wet nose.

‘Oh! Hello!’ he exclaims, taken by surprise, pulling out his earbuds, recoiling without really meaning to; it’s not that he doesn’t like dogs, of course not, he’s just…not used to them. ‘Hello.’

The dog – a beautiful black Labrador with a blue vest, the words ‘Service Dog’ imprinted in white letters – eyes him keenly, tail wagging slowly and Bitty blinks; glances out at the deserted sidewalk.

‘Where’s your owner, honey?’

The dog doesn’t move, brown eyes intent and alarm bells start going off in Bitty’s head. He’s heard about stuff like this before and he stands immediately, phone in hand, disregarding his half-finished text to Lardo. The dog dances backwards, looking oddly hopeful.

‘Can you take me to them, honey? Do they need help? Yeah? Come on,’ he’s not sure what else to do, so gestures lamely with a finger and the dog immediately sets off with him in tow. Anxious, Bitty jogs to keep up, worried by the speedy gambol of the dog’s legs and what it might mean for the missing owner; as he dashes along he manages to type 911 into his phone, finger hovering over the call button as the dog takes him around the corner and down a quiet side-street, sheltered by the high walls of the buildings around them and towards a figure further down, hunched over the pavement.

For a split-second, Bitty thinks he’s looking at a beggar but then he realises his mistake; the figure is dark-haired and casually dressed in a black t-shirt and fitted jeans, leaning against the brick wall behind him for balance, wiping himself down with a hand, the other clutching a blue cap. Even from here, he looks aggravated, his face twisted, tension emanating with every jerky movement he makes. The dog races towards him and the figure – the apparent owner – glances up; something in his face relaxes minutely and he puts a hand to its neck, steadying himself, giving himself an anchor.

‘Are you alright?’ Bitty calls, running towards him, eyes already moving over him for signs of injury.

‘Fine,’ the man replies with a heavy grunt, pushing himself slowly to his feet, using one knee for leverage and shoving his cap back onto his head. He’s actually quite broad, _very_ muscular, and when Bitty arrives beside him, his attention is caught by eyes a cutting shade of blue – eyes that are currently squinted in annoyance. It runs contrary, though, to the hand that reaches down to scruff the dog’s neck briefly; an almost absent-minded, but tender gesture.

‘Did Puck come and find you?’ the man asks, in a tone that sounds slightly impatient, more than a little demanding.

‘Puck - oh, your dog? Yes, he did.’ Bitty settles his eyes on the apparently-named Puck and smiles slightly; the darling creature seems very self-satisfied, but the owner seems safe and well after all that, if extremely cross. ‘Um. I think he thought you needed help?’ He looks him up and down, uncertain. ‘Uh. Do you?’ He doesn’t want to presume, after all.

The man huffs in response to the question. ‘Fell over,’ the words jerk off his tongue; there’s an accent there that Bitty can’t quite place. ‘Tripped over a brick.’

He gestures over his shoulder and Bitty cranes his neck to look; yep, there it is, sitting innocuously in the middle of the sidewalk like it isn’t about to do someone a harm, except it has.

 ‘Oh – oh dear. I’m sorry. I guess Puck must’ve - he must’ve thought you’d, ah –’

 _‘She,’_ the owner corrects him, cutting across him none too gently, obviously wanting to spare himself from Bitty’s babble; another look at Puck and Bitty realises his mistake - she definitely has the size of the slightly smaller, female breed of Labradors.

He glances back up and his mouth immediately dries up in the face of her owner’s piercing, unfriendly glare and he’s about to stammer out some excuse – maybe something like those which Johnson used to fire out at random at Samwell, _this is inconclusive to the narrative, so bye_ or **something** – when he spies the bleeding left palm the man is trying to keep close to his jeans; exclaims, reaches out on reflex.

‘Oh –’

‘It’s fine.’ The hand is withdrawn, the words bitten out. ‘It’s fine, just go back to whatever it is you were doing, eh? You don’t need to help me.’

‘Okay, um.’ Bitty swallows. ‘If you’re sure? You should probably get a band-aid, or... something?’

Another huff, as if Bitty suggested that he wander into the middle of a busy road during rush-hour and when he speaks next, every word is like the impatient jerk of a fishing line. ‘I’m fine, thank you - or at least I _will_ be when idiots in this city stop leaving debris around like it’s their own personal playground, _crisse_.’

The word comes out as a snarl, bitten out at the world and all the aforementioned idiots in it, frustration matching his rumpled look of the man, the dust smudges on his jeans, the hand that’s been split open. A man who is seriously fed up right now and just when Bitty decides that’s definitely his cue to go, Puck gives a little grunt, nuzzling her owner’s hand with her nose like a reminder, clear concern in her behaviour.

And then, just like that, Tall, Dark and Very Angry… _stops_ being angry. His shoulders drop, his eyes close and he breathes out, fingers to the bridge of his nose, clearly taking a moment to compose himself, biting his lip in a ragged breath.

‘Sorry,’ he mutters, the word like the first, softest ripple and when his eyes meet Bitty’s again, they’re softer, lighter. Exceedingly tired. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be taking this out on you. I’m just –’

‘Frustrated,’ Bitty fills in tentatively and gets a half-hearted chuckle in return. ‘It’s okay, honey, I get it.’

He clamps a hand over his mouth – wishes he could take that back; this isn’t an injured member of the hockey team, this is a stranger, a stranger who probably won’t appreciate being called such endearments by a fellow male – but all he gets is a raised eyebrow and a small smile in return that doesn’t seem mocking.

‘Well – Jack, actually,’ he shrugs. ‘Though… _honey’s_ not too bad.’ He makes to hold his hand out, then glances at the mess of blood and gravel still sticking to his hand and withdraws it with a grimace, wiping it down on his jeans with clear self-consciousness. ‘Not very sweet though, eh?’

Bitty giggles, finding that funny, even if it is rather a Dad joke. ‘It’s not bad. Hi, Jack. I’m Bitty – well, Eric, but all my friends call me Bitty.’ He shrugs at the quizzical look he gets. ‘My surname is Bittle and I’m small, so.’

‘Well – _Bittle,’_ Jack compromises and touches his cap in lieu of a handshake, ‘Thanks for coming with Puck, even though it wasn’t necessary in this case. She thought I was having a seizure when I went over – I didn’t have time to grab her before she went haring off to find someone.’ He says it with a vigorous ruffle of Puck’s ears; she, yawning, lays herself down on the pavement, clearly considering the conversation to be boring.

Shrugging, feeling oddly embarrassed now, Bitty scratches his neck. ‘You’re welcome, Jack. But – uh. Your hand…’

With a shrug, Jack glances at the sore palm. ‘It’s not too bad. Just when I reached out to break my fall. I’ll wash up when I get home.’

‘Well, there’s a café around the corner,’ Bitty offers, belatedly remembering with a jolt of horror he’s left his stuff out on the table. ‘Do you just want to… come and sit down a minute, have some water maybe? They might have a bathroom you can use.’

He expects Jack to refuse, to shrug it off and say goodbye, but Jack’s eyes linger on his after the question and then he bites his lip, glances at Puck as though seeking some sort of approval. She, sensing his movement, gazes unflinchingly back at him, ears cocked and it’s possibly the most adorable thing Bitty’s seen all day.

‘Eh… yeah,’ Jack sounds hesitant in his acceptance of the invitation. ‘If that’s – yeah. Thanks. Come on,’ pulling on Puck’s lead, he tugs her to her feet. ‘Lead the way, Bittle.’

‘Sure. Oh, one thing!’ Bitty wanders around him towards the offending brick and kicks it off to the side, where it’s less likely to get in the way, but more likely to be noticed as a blight against the wall and therefore easily avoided. He turns and smiles at Jack, whose eyes crease a little, almost in curiosity. Impressed, maybe and Bitty finds himself clearing his throat, really hopes the sudden warmth sneaking up his cheeks isn’t too obvious as they make their way back up the street.

He’s distracted with relief to find all his stuff is still on the table untouched and Jack brings Puck inside the cafe’s temporary outdoor fencing, settles her down beside his chair while Bitty clears his bag and coat to make room for them. Digging into his bag, he retrieves his water-bottle, which one very kind employee refilled for him for free two bakeries ago, offers it to Jack.

‘I’m not contagious,’ he offers, sheepish and Jack shrugs and takes a sip, works it around his mouth, looking oddly focused, filling out his sharp cheekbones almost comically, swallows and takes another sip, each one equal and measured, each one clearly an exercise in calming himself and his body down after the shock of the fall. After five, small sips, Jack wipes the rim of the bottle with his hand and carefully replaces the top, handing it back over.

‘Thanks, Bittle.’

‘My pleasure.’ Bitty, feeling as if he’s just witnessed something incredibly intimate somehow, places the water back in his bag. He’s glad he had enough foresight to bring it along while traipsing around the city so that he wouldn’t get dehydrated during his travels. He watches Jack’s hands, generously shaped and gentle, scratching one of Puck’s ears as he zips his bag back up and it makes him smile a little. Despite a bad first impression, he can tell that Jack clearly loves his dog.

‘Can I buy you a coffee?’ Jack asks, patting Puck’s back once more before he straightens up. ‘As a thank you for, you know. Coming to my rescue.’

Bitty giggles. ‘I think I’d be the worst white knight in the world, honey. _A damsel in distress needs my help? I literally just put a pie in the oven.’_ He grins, rubbing his neck and Jack blinks, looking mystified before he laughs as well, although the upwards curve of his smile does nothing to hide the open curiosity on his face.

‘Have you… got a pie in the oven now?’ he asks after a beat and that’s _funny and_ makes Bitty giggle some more.

‘Probably, somewhere, given my track record. But yeah, I’ll take a coffee, thankyou,’ he adds quickly because Jack, bless him, looks like he’s trying his best to follow the joke and not quite getting it.

Besides, if he’s honest with himself, Bitty’s got nothing better to do and he could do worse than having a handsome stranger buying him a hot beverage as recompense for biting his head off just moments ago. He’s probably straight, but still, Bitty won’t say no when the offer’s been made. Anyway, he’s always up for meeting new people in a city where he literally only knows one person, whose sofa he’s currently sleeping on and who is currently busily working on an art commission.

They go in with Puck to inspect the menu and the prices – Bitty decides on a Frappuccino. To his surprise, Jack orders a vanilla milkshake.

‘My doctor says milky beverages are good for stress,’ he shrugs, looking sheepish, keeping a hand on Puck’s back as if she’s grounding him, which she probably is. ‘So, you know. Treat.’

Bitty shrugs, seeing the logic. ‘Absolutely! Doctor’s orders, honey.’ And there he goes again, that casual endearment slipping off his tongue for a stranger he’s just met but Jack grins, a rather kind-looking thing and focuses on the top of Puck’s head and maybe Bitty’s imagining it, but a faint pinkness seems to colour Jack’s cheeks, softening those sharp cheekbones.

Out of nowhere, their drinks are called and he snaps out of it, taking the tray for them and leading the way back out to the table.

‘Can you look after her for a moment?’ Jack asks as Bitty lays out the drinks over the table, ‘I need to, eh...’ He holds up his still-bleeding hand and Bitty grimaces in sympathy, immediately takes the leash, ashamed of himself for forgetting.

‘Sure.’ He smiles and watches Jack go back inside, tries not to let his eyes linger on how well fitted his clothes are. Puck, for her part, doesn’t seem to mind being left alone with him; simply yawns again and lays herself down by his feet.

‘I know,’ Bitty murmurs to her, scratches her ears the same way Jack did as he takes a sip of his frap, feeling it revive his spirits. ‘I shouldn’t be staring like that - but goodness, honey, I gotta say, you _do_ have a handsome owner, don’t you? A handsome owner and a gorgeous girl,’ he coos, imagining that they must make quite a striking pair on the street. 

Puck, with no apparent opinion over this one way or the other, simply rests her chin on her paws, licks her chops.

‘My last date threw up on my shoes,’ Bitty confides to her in an undertone. ‘Put me right off men for a while. Not that _this_ is a date,’ he assures quickly, in case she thinks he has questionable intentions over the man she takes care of, ‘this is just coffee. Besides, my Aunt Judy – she’s a little eccentric, but she’s got a good heart – always says the way to a man’s heart is with jam and I certainly don’t have any of _that_ on me today!’

He goes on to fill Puck in on the more heated parts of his mother and Aunt Judy’s jam-feud, the wrangling over which recipe belonged to who, enjoying this - enjoying the pleasantness of just _being,_ of sitting in the middle of a new city for a moment and stroking the wonderfully soft ears of a dog he’s been entrusted with, when Jack returns, looking a little more together, a little calmer.

‘All good?’ Bitty checks; Jack shows him his hand, which is clean, if a bit grazed.

‘All good. Thanks, Bittle. Good girl,’ Jack rumbles to Puck, scratching her chin and it’s a soft, sweet sound that Bitty finds himself wishing he could replay, like a favourite moment from a television programme and he busies himself with quickly giving back the leash. Jack takes it, a question in his eyes.

‘Were you – _talking_ to her?’

Bitty shrugs, feeling himself flush. ‘She’s a good conversationalist. Sorry if I – I know you’re not supposed to touch or distract service-dogs, I won’t –’

‘No, it’s okay,’ Jack’s voice softens as he hastens to reassure him. ‘I appreciate you taking care of her for me. And yeah, I know, she is.’ He grins, unashamed and strokes her head. ‘Best girl. Think she likes you,’ he adds as Puck turns her head to sniff at Bitty’s hand; glancing at Jack for permission this time, he resumes his petting, aware of Jack’s eyes on him.

‘Looks like I’ve not made a very good impression with all my huffing and puffing, eh?’ Jack sounds discomforted and when Bitty glances up, it’s to see a grimace on the other man’s face.

‘Oh, no – you’d had a fall.’ He straightens up, shaking his head. ‘You couldn’t help it.’

‘Nah, that’s no excuse,’ Jack shakes his head right back; when he speaks next, it’s blunt, honest. ‘I just – it’s frustrating enough when it happens for real. Even on my good days…’ He grimaces his exasperation silent but obvious and he scratches his forehead. ‘Sometimes I _have_  needed help and Puck’s gone to find someone, only to come back empty-handed because she’s shooed away, or people just want to pet her.’

‘…and the one time you didn’t need help,’ Bitty gestures to himself, wrinkling his nose. Jack nods, chuffs, busies himself with taking a sip of his milkshake; it’s a generous sip, clearly seeking calm.

‘All the same though,’ he says, after swallowing. ‘Thank you. Thank you for, you know. Knowing what to do, even if it was a false alarm. And I _am_ sorry.’ His expression is sincere, contrite. ‘For being a dick back there. You were just trying to help.’

Bitty shrugs; it is what it is and he appreciates the apology.

‘Well,’ he offers up finally, ‘any excuse to meet a nice dog.’ He enjoys the way Jack’s face changes, the way a smile splits across it, shaking away his seriousness and feels proud, somehow, of managing to achieve them. ‘I’m usually - not that I’m scared of them by any means, but some of the ones in our neighbourhood back home, they’re - they’re kind of big and, er, alarming. Not her, though,’ he adds with a glance at the _her_ in question, who is busy having a stretch, rump in the air, before resettling.

‘Well, dogs aren’t for everyone,’ Jack shrugs over his milkshake. ‘My dad is actually allergic and I, uh. I couldn’t have a dog growing up.’ He rests an elbow on the table, looking sheepish. ‘But then I was assessed for my epilepsy – I’m epileptic,’ he explains quickly, indicating himself, as though he just wants to throw it out there and have done. Bitty nods; Lord knows the man doesn’t owe him an explanation by any means but that makes sense.

‘And I...got Puck.’ Jack makes an expression that’s somewhere between a grimace and a smile. ‘So, you know. Something good came out of it – doctor’s orders,’ he reiterates with a gesture in Bitty’s direction, which makes him giggle again. ‘Still, I hope she didn’t... startle you or anything…?’

Bitty shakes his head. ‘Not at all. She’s lovely. And it’s not like she tried to knock me down like the ones back in Georgia; some of them were huge and I was small - smaller - than I am now, if you can believe it.’’

He smiles, but Jack’s brow is furrowed; he nods a little, making an encouraging noise, prompting Bitty to continue.

‘Well...you know. Having a dog come at you like that…’ Bitty breaks off, grimacing, remembering the way Coach’s friends would just shrug it off as ‘It’s okay, he’s just playing,’ as all barely five-feet of him tried to duck out of the way of the impending storm of fur and paws which felt anything but friendly. He recalls his father’s frustrated sighs every time Bitty ducked behind him when a dog of certain size came bounding in his direction.

‘You’ve just got to stand your ground with them, Junior,’ he had muttered, holding out a fist for the dog to sniff but Bitty couldn’t get past the image of the hurtling canine that felt too much like being shoved in the hallways and so didn’t stand his ground at all.

‘That’s…’ Jack is frowning over his milkshake. ‘That sounds...kind of uncomfortable.’

Bitty chuffs. ‘It was, but it’s fine. I mean, I got tossed off the hockey college team for not being able to take a check, so I guess it should have been a sign, really.’

He titters nervously, wonders why exactly he brought that up, that particular thing that he still has trouble coming to terms with; Jack has frozen over his milkshake and is blinking at him, stunned. Bitty rubs his neck, wonders if he’s revealed too much, if Jack is going to think that that’s completely pathetic.

Not that it matters, of course. They only met about twenty minutes ago.

‘I mean,’ he shrugs into the silence, hoping to repair what damage he may have wrought, ‘the boys all stayed friends with me and we all – we were all still close. But yeah. No more hockey.’

‘You...stayed at the same college?’ Jack asks finally, cautiously and Bitty smiles, appreciating his attempt at tact.

‘Mama and Daddy took over paying my college fees because they knew how much it meant to me.’ He plays with his straw, eyes downcast, overcome for a moment by bad memories, by difficult phone-calls, leaving the ice for the last time in shame, when the coaches finally had to make that decision. Even to this day, he wonders if he should feel guilty, somehow, for not being out to his parents after they took on that financial responsibility – it’s something that goes around his head continuously. ‘And, ah, that’s that.’

‘Yeah,’ Jack says and there’s a weight to that _yeah,_ a story behind it. ‘I, eh. Know what you mean.’ He gestures to himself. ‘My, eh. I was expected to play professionally. Hockey, that is, ice-hockey. But, eh.’ He puts a hand on Puck’s head like an anchor, shrugs. ‘Well. It got complicated with my epilepsy.’

Bitty nods, feeling touched by Jack’s honesty even though the man genuinely owes him nothing.

‘It got – it was too hard,’ Jack parses his words carefully. ‘I still play, but…’ He shrugs. ‘Mainly coach, now. It’s calmer.’

Oh. Well. Bitty considers Jack for a moment and then pulls out the box with the last slice of pecan pie in it. Opening it, he pushes it in front of Jack.

‘Treats are good for stress, too,’ he says in response to Jack’s confused blink; wonders if he’s allergic, if he just doesn’t care for pie, or any kind of baked goods. ‘Well. You don’t have to – ‘

‘No, just. Ah. There _was_ an actual pie," Jack remarks, looking utterly dumbfounded and that breaks the spell; they both share a small laugh.

‘There was,’ Bitty echoes with a faint smile, indicating the single slice remaining and Jack seems to remember himself; reaches out, tugs the box towards him with a murmur of thanks, inspects the offering and then, carefully, with a delicacy that belies the strength of his hands, takes a bite, cautious and quizzical. Chews, eyes focused, swallows.

‘That’s really good," he praises finally and Bitty feels something flutter in his chest. ‘Erm – is that pecan?’

Bitty grins at the way he pronounces it. ‘Pecan.’

‘Pecan,’ Jack repeats.

‘Pecan.’

_‘Pecan.’_

‘Goodness gracious, are you doing this on purpose?’

‘Probably,’ Jack looks suitably guilty, but like he’s trying to hold back a grin. ‘But it’s still delicious.’ A beat in which he swallows and then he asks, ‘So, um. How come you’re wandering around Providence in the middle of the day with a pie? Or, ah. _Were,_ at least?’

Bitty fills him in – tells him about his job-hunting, his desire to go somewhere new. The things he’s heard about Providence and how it attracted him like an eager fly to a bountiful, sticky honeypot – not just in terms of the food, but also in terms of location. Samwell may have had its difficulties, but four years there means that Massachusetts is like a second home to Bitty now. He doesn’t want to be too far away from it, if he can be.

‘I mean. Madison’s good; there’s plenty of stuff to do in Georgia," he shrugs; Jack is listening carefully, politely, ‘I’ve done camp counselling and I help my mother sell her produce. But…’ he shrugs. ‘Time for a change.’

‘Mm.’ Jack taps his straw almost absent-mindedly into the bottom of his milkshake glass. ‘Is baking what you want to do?’

Bitty shrugs, looking down at his hands. ‘It’s what I’ve always done. I love it. I, ah, used to go and hang out with the hockey team and bake for them.’

He smiles, soft with memory, recalling late nights in the Haus that was his home away from home, the mad kegsters, riding high on both Ransom and Holster’s shoulders, sitting with the team on the Faber roof, getting wrecked and singing ‘Wrecking Ball’ and piles and piles of pie. They’d lamented at the fact that he couldn’t move in with them but often their beds, their floors and blankets, had been loaned out on the late nights and it had felt like he belonged, in a way. He couldn’t go on roadies and he couldn’t be there to cheer the boys on at every single game and he felt the silence of the nights when they were playing an away game – but he still _belonged._

‘I miss it,’ he admits now, to Jack. ‘It was hard graduating, and leaving Samwell behind, but -’

‘Samwell?’ Jack interrupts. ‘Samwell University?’

‘Oh, you know it?’

‘That’s my Maman’s alma mater,’ Jack nods. ‘She studied there.’

‘Oh!’ Bitty exclaims, pleasantly surprised.

‘Yeah, she suggested I go when I – anyway – but in the end, I didn’t. I was tempted, but – I ended up here instead.’

They chat about it for a while – Bitty tells Jack about the lake and how the hockey team once practiced on it when it froze over; the awful Lacrosse bros across the street from the Haus; the LGBT-friendly community.

‘But I must be boring you,’ he cuts himself off midway through a story about the rugby guy he dated, realising it’s getting too close to personal territory; he doesn’t really want to admit to a guy he’s just met that he chickened out of a kiss. ‘I should ask you to tell me something about yourself.’

Jack shakes his head. ‘You’re not boring me.’ His eyes are oddly sleepy and soft, like a warm, blue blanket, fixed on Bitty as he says it and _oh for the love of all that is good and holy do not blush again, whatever you do_. ‘Besides, I’m not very interesting.’

Feeling bold, Bitty responds, ‘Try me,’ and then wonders where the hell this brazenness came from.

So Jack does – he comes from Quebec, originally (ah, so that explains the accent) but, similar to Bitty, felt the need for new horizons. He’s a hockey coach, as previously mentioned and he admits, with a shrug of his shoulder, that he was surprised to find how much he liked working with kids and teenagers.

‘I, ah, didn’t think they’d take to me,’ he shrugs, spreading his hands wide, ‘But, ah. Here I am, teaching. I also do some history subbing on the side, at the college – I was supposed to do it today, but it fell through at the last minute.’

‘Hockey and history,’ Bitty commends. ‘That’s a good mix.’

Jack grins. ‘Me in three words, Maman always says.’ His phone buzzes and he murmurs an ‘Excuse me,’ checks his notifications.

‘It’s my friend,’ he tells Bitty. ‘Tater – uh, Alexei. He likes to check up on me.’ He chuffs. ‘He comes from Russia, so we kind of bonded over, you know. Neither of us actually being American. That and hockey.’

‘Does he coach too?’ Bitty asks; Jack pauses and then shakes his head.

‘Not exactly, no, but he’s in, ah, a similar sort of occupation,’ he sounds like he’s weighing his words carefully and so Bitty doesn’t pry. ‘But he’s a good guy. He often drags me to LaSalle for sweet treats – have you been there?’

Bitty shakes his head, makes a mental note. ‘Tasty?’

‘Enough for Alexei to scar you for life with his eating habits,’ Jack throws out dryly and Bitty gives out a surprised laugh before they’re interrupted by another phone, Bitty’s this time. Beyonce’s Single Ladies blares over the quiet cosiness of the table and Puck perks her head up as Bitty fumbles for his phone with an apologetic look at Jack, who blinks at the choice of ringtone.

‘Is that... Lady Gaga?’ he asks and Bitty’s jaw drops; he has to busy himself with taking the phone-call before he can say anything he might regret.

Thirty seconds later, his disbelief turns to delight and with many _thankyous_ and good wishes, he hangs up, turns to an expectant Jack.

‘Got an interview!’ he cheers; he names the bakery and Jack grins, offers his fist to bump.

‘Nice one, Bittle. They liked your pie.’

‘Yeah.’ Bitty grins, relieved, both at the offer and even at Jack’s approval; even if he doesn’t get the job it’s still good practice and it feels good to have already been offered a chance. ‘I’ve just – I felt like such an idiot sometimes, today, walking around with this pie in my hand and having all these managers looking down at me.’

Jack shakes his head, eyes shuttering, uncomprehending. ‘Why would that be idiotic? You’re getting on with it, Bittle; it was hard for me to get myself back out there for a while. At least you’re doing something. Besides, bribing them with pie always helps.’ He throws out a huge wink to show that he’s joking and really, Bitty can’t be mad. _This boy._

‘They want me in at 9am,’ he glances at his watch, startled to realise how late it is; almost three hours have passed them by. The sun is starting to lower in the sky; the afternoon is making the first signs of winding down towards the evening.

‘I, ah,’ he swallows, feeling oddly disappointed. ‘I should probably let you go now, Jack.’ Lardo will be due home soon, and he promised her a night of takeout and BBC dramas on Netflix after she spent the whole day painting. Plus, if he has this job-interview in the morning, he should probably get some sleep.

‘Yeah,’ Jack echoes, his eyes not leaving Bitty’s face. ‘Yeah, you ought to rest up for tomorrow. I should be getting Puck home, anyway.’

He stands up with Bitty, something in his face conflicted before he leans down to pet Puck, focusing very hard on her, the flit of his hands over her fur exceedingly rigorous as Bitty gathers his bag and they wander out together into the mid-afternoon glow. Bitty’s trying to figure out the best way of saying goodbye - trying to ignore the odd dive of disappointment in his stomach as he was genuinely enjoying their conversation - when Jack suddenly speaks up.

‘You know, ah, Bittle,’ he sounds hesitant, looking at Puck rather than him, ‘if you do stick around, you’d be welcome to join us on a walk sometime. Providence is pretty green.’

‘So I’ve heard,’ Bitty offers with far more boldness than he feels right then because _goodness._ ‘Thankyou, Jack, I’d really like that.’

‘Maybe,’ Jack adds quickly and this time he does meet Bitty’s eyes, head-on. ‘I could take you out for dinner sometime?’

The question hangs in the air between them and Bitty swallows, hard.

‘Yes please,’ he manages, cursing himself for his sudden breathlessness. A huge grin breaks out over Jack’s face and Bitty wonders if he’s as relieved as he’s feeling right now. _And here I thought I was imagining things,_ he thinks hysterically and tugs out his phone.

‘Can I…can I call you?’ he asks, offering it to him and Jack nods, takes it and enters his number quickly and efficiently. Puck makes a little whine by his feet – not in distress, just shaking her head rigorously, almost like a _remember me?_

‘Don’t worry, Puck, I promise to treat him like a gentleman,’ Bitty promises, apparently unable to stop himself and Jack laughs softly, a gentle little _Haha_ as he gives the phone back.

‘I don’t doubt it,’ he meets Bitty’s eyes, smiles warmly. ‘Let me know how you get on tomorrow, yeah?’ Another wink and then he gently tugs Puck’s leash. ‘Good luck, Bittle.’

*

_Epilogue:_

Honestly? Puck is a complete darling in many ways and Bitty absolutely _adores_ her, but she does love to get up early and make her presence known at the most ungodly hours – often when it’s still dark outside and the sun is just starting its slow, reluctant climb over the horizon.

‘It’s so early I’m going to vomit,’ Bitty groans, glancing at the alarm-clock; still got another hour before he’s supposed to get up for work.

Unconcerned by such trivial matters, Puck climbs onto the bed and rests her chin on his shoulder, making doggy-grunts, tail wagging. Jack chuckles next to him, not much better than his treacherous cinnamon-roll of a dog. He rolls over, enveloping Bitty in his arms and nuzzling his hair with just the right amount of rough.

 _Or ruff,_ Bitty thinks hysterically, still so sleepy as Jack kisses his neck, buries his face there. He’s exhausted – poor boy had a seizure yesterday evening which left him worn out and needing an early night, but he seems better now; the sleep would have helped and he’s not due to start teaching until nine.

‘I’ll let her out, honey.’

‘I love you,’ Jack mutters and Bitty grins, forcing himself out of bed, clicking his fingers and with a poor attempt at whistling that has Jack sleepily chirping him all the way to the kitchen and has him smiling all the way through his morning routine; feeding Puck and unlocking her dog-door so she can go in and out as she pleases. They’ve only been in the new house for a matter of weeks but Puck adores the huge new backyard, loves gamboling around in it and marking her territory, her toys strewn over the grass, rolling around in the vast green on sunny days.

She wanders back in just as he’s finishing up making a coffee for himself and a tea for Jack, rubs her nose against his leg, panting a little and he smiles at her; she’s their girl. Not specifically intended for Bitty, he realises that, not trained for his needs but meeting them all the same: company, reassurance and comfort for the bad days and all of that and so much more on the good days, her typical perfect self for both him and Jack.

‘Good girl,’ he praises, picking up both mugs and she follows him faithfully, back to the bedroom where Jack is waiting.

*


End file.
